


a castle made of bones

by icelandicc



Category: Tales of Vesperia
Genre: Character Study, Experimental Style, Gen, Masochism, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6858256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icelandicc/pseuds/icelandicc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, Yuri had his interests, just like everyone else. But this… was well beyond an interest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a castle made of bones

It was no secret that Yuri liked battle. He liked being caught off guard. He liked the little tingles of almost-pain that shot up his arms when his sword hit steel or bone or scale. He liked charging into things recklessly because he _knew_ he’d get hurt. He liked the clean swell of broken skin where blade met flesh, and the sweet, stinging ache that accompanied it. Yuri liked _pain_.

Estelle saw it, and was confused. This need that Yuri harbored, bordering on obsession, was so foreign to her. Her nature was to heal and give life, so the color of the bruises on his arms and the caking of blood in his hair held nothing for her other then concern.

Karol saw it, and was afraid. Yuri was a caged wolf, pulling to get free but never truly breaking out of his chains. He was fearless and battle-hardened and _strong_ and the symphony of his war cries was an expression caught somewhere between the excitement of a child and the madness of a man drunk on adrenaline. It was loud and brash and Karol was _scared_ ; but he didn’t let it show.

Raven saw it, and was troubled. He remembered it, being a hot to trot youth with an insatiable need for action and struggle and combat, with a burning passion for blood dripping off his chin and the nip of cuts and bruises marring his skin. He wanted to forget, but the memories swam back to the surface whenever he caught a glimpse of the curve of Yuri’s shoulder as he cleaned the blood off his sword.

Judith saw it, and _understood_. The throb in the pit of her stomach that mimicked the movement of Yuri’s hair as he whipped around to face another enemy as the first one fell, then the second, then the third. Within them both was a force screaming that it wouldn’t be ignored. The force that loved heat and heavy breathing and the scent of iron burning its nose.

And so Yuri sat on his cold throne, drenched in blood, with thorns digging into his hands. But he held his sword still, reveling in the moment of calm, sweet agony as the dirt on the hilt of his sword rubbed into his open wounds. With each body that hit the ground, the Yuri on the throne clenched his sword tighter, knuckles white as the bones that built up his castle.


End file.
